Floating in the air is the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelios, morcilla... home, laughter, long nights...
Echos of different radios playing Willie Colon, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony... which fiesta you tryna go to.
Viejitos sit together, reflect on how long its been, how the neighborhood is changing.. while playing dominoes by the trucks.
It's funny to hear them yelling over eachother, always a game of who's louder.
Never tell them "you're yelling!" tho , because "no mama THIS IS HOW I TALK".
You don't just walk down the streets. You dance. To the rhythm. Hips start to sway. Bachata takes over and you're dancing with 3 others. 1..2..3..hip 1..2..3.. hip
"MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN. If you can dance infront of everyone you can anything in this world. Never stop dancing."
I love them. Feels safe here. It's home.
The machismo never phased me. It lifted me up.
Faded memories of climbing the rusted bleachers, always daring to catch up with the boys of the block. taking breaks for my cherry piragua. Memories hold me warm as a blanket. Carrying with me never forgetting.
The closest thing to remembering you.
Laughter strikes cause it was so long ago. I was so young, yet I miss the opportunity I could've had. Wish we had a chance. MY viejo. My abuelo. The prettiest princess in the land. The real Cinderella. (Only he would know my favorite memory on Halloween)
